


A Debt Which Can Never Be Discharged

by Lucretiassister



Category: Poldark - All Media Types
Genre: Francis Poldark lives, Gen, Poldark AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-28 16:49:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13908198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucretiassister/pseuds/Lucretiassister
Summary: An AU where Francis lives and saves another Poldark from peril.





	A Debt Which Can Never Be Discharged

**Author's Note:**

> This was written (hastily) for Day Three of the Poldark Weeks Francis Appreciation Week. Thanks @poldarkweeks for the inspiration/challenge.

Francis Poldark woke with a start. It took him a few moments to realise he was in his own drawing room and must have dozed off after sitting down with his early evening brandy. It had been a warm day and a late sunbeam trickled in through the leaded glass windows making patterns of dancing light on the thick turkey carpets and wide floor beams. The house was quiet. He sighed, content to be alone.

Francis had taken to retreating to this particular chair when he needed a spell of solitude after a busy day about his business, working his land or his mine. He’d always known it to be part of the room; it had been his great aunt’s chair.  Agatha Poldark had finally departed this earth some five years before, just a few months after her one hundredth birthday. Satisfied to reach that milestone, in her final days she had been unusually quiet, not more than a fading spirit in a heavy black gown. And yet when she finally let go, she left a sort of shadow on Trenwith House, an unshakable feeling of something lost.

Yes, there were still Trenwith Poldarks, and Francis hoped that with god’s blessing there always would be. He had two sons now and a daughter; he’d leave his own legacy, one he could be proud of. But Aunt Agatha was the last of her kind, a citizen of the Old Cornwall that had vanished long before Francis or even his father was born. Francis liked to sit in Agatha’s chair and feel a connection between himself and these relations long passed. After all, if one were to reap the benefits of an ancient and distinguished family name, one must also on occasion, pay homage to its ghosts.

Elizabeth, his wife, hated the chair and had suggested that if Francis wouldn't allow it to be discarded, they might remove it to an unused corner of the house, preferably a dusty attic where it would rot away without anyone's notice. But Francis wouldn’t hear of it.

“For goodness sake, Francis,“ she admonished. “It is such a shameful eyesore. At least let us get it recovered.” Indeed the worsted damask had split and frayed along the back, the coarse wires of ancient horse hair sprung out here and there. But the dark polished walnut gleamed bright from nearly a century of worried hands grasping the carved arm rests.

“Yes, yes, my dear,” he had agreed with his wife, as he most often did when it came to matters of taste and Trenwith upkeep. Still he found ways of delaying the event as long as possible.

A lazy fly buzzed round his head, reappearing at his other ear, making it known he would not return to his slumber uninterrupted. He stretched his legs and thought to go search out the other members of the household before supper.

Elizabeth was upstairs resting and although he would have liked her company, he did not wish to disturb her. Earlier that day she had been on her horse but not for pleasure; she had ridden out to check on their tenants. Francis knew it pained her that they could do little more for them and thus these visits she paid out of duty and care, made her weary.

Through the great window Francis saw his daughter, Evelyn, running top speed up the green lawn towards the house. Her chestnut hair was loose and tangled from the wind, her white frock damp at the hem and streaked with sand and mud; she’d no doubt been to the sea again. While her governess and perhaps even her mother might find her current disheveled state disturbing, Francis would never dare to scold her, for the look of happiness on her face as she played freely in the countryside brought a gladness to his heart. He too had once lived a carefree youth on the family land and he wouldn’t deny his children that same joy. He knew too well that adulthood loomed and carried with it unavoidable heartaches.

Evelyn, his middle child, was ten years old, and while she retained the plump sweetness of a little girl, already traces of profound beauty flashed on her face from time to time. Francis hadn’t known her mother, Elizabeth, when she was this young but suspected her allure had always been stamped on her, even in girlhood.

Most days that summer Evelyn could be found playing with her cousins, the children of Francis’s own cousin. Ross Poldark and his wife Demelza lived within walking distance and their estate, Nampara, was a second home to the children of Trenwith. All the Poldark children were more friends than cousins and on these long summer days, were inseparable.

Evelyn came between Jeremy and Clowance in age, and adored them both. With Jeremy she would sit for hours, drawing silently or talking about the constellations in the heavens. With Clowance she ran wild, picking flowers, chasing rabbits, running along the beach. Clowance was known as a bit of a tomboy in her family and Evelyn watched her stealthy and adventurous moves with awe, usually not daring to follow. Evelyn’s younger brother Jonathan, the youngest of them all, was thrilled to be included in any way, and struggled to keep up. The oldest of all the Poldark cousins was Francis and Elizabeth’s son, Geoffrey Charles, already eighteen years old, and away in London, soon to be joining the army, as was the fate of so many young men his age.

They were matched sets, the Trenwith and the Nampara Poldark children. Just a year separated Jeremy and Evelyn, and then Clowance and young Jonathan were a year apart from each other as well. But Francis knew there was a missing piece from these paired treasures. Julia Poldark, Ross and Demelza’s oldest was lost to them years ago when still a baby. She would have been fourteen this year.  

_Good god, has it been that long?_

Francis glanced again as Evelyn approached the house but as she came closer he registered the look of anguish and distress on her face. He walked briskly to meet her at the door.

“What is it, my love?” he asked, reaching for her. A skinned knee? A running race lost to longer legs? Such were the travails of a little girl’s summer.

“Papa! It’s Clowance. She’s stranded in the tide and will be drownded!” she sobbed and ran straight into his arms, burying her face in his belly. Francis felt her frail body shaking with terror while her tears soaked his waistcoat.

His first instinct was panic--he felt his stomach drop and struggled for breath. But he caught himself at once; he must be strong for his child and manage the situation. First, he must mine the facts to fully assess the danger.

“Evie, my dearest. Tell me all,” he said gently, bending down closer to her wet face.

“Papa, we...we were playing on the beach and then we went alone to explore the caves. T’was naughty of us. Aunt Demelza told us we wasn’t to go alone to Nampara Cove but we did. And then we climbed on the rocks and Clowance thought she’d go up the biggest to play King of the Seals. But the tide was rising, we didn’t know it had gotten so late, and we knew we’d be late for supper so we started to leave. And Clowance…” She paused and a hot breathy sob escaped her again. Already raw from the sea air, her lips were red from being bitten in distress.

“Go on, dear,” Francis said. Time stood still while he waited for her to continue. He wanted to shake her to hasten her speech but knew he had to remain gentle. He closed his eyes and braced himself for the worst.

“She forgot her shells behind so she climbed back up to get them. But the tide kept rising and the sea grew so rough. It rushes into the coves so swiftly, not like at the shore. Clowance can't climb down, she’s too afraid. So she’s just standing there on the rock, Papa.”

“She’s there still?” he asked, exhaling a breath he didn't know he was holding.

“Yes, but she can’t get down!”

“Why didn’t you go to Nampara for help?” He meant Ross’s house was closer to Nampara Cove than Trenwith was, but he saw how heartless it sounded as soon as the words escaped his lips.  

“I don't know,” she cried, realising she had made what might prove to be a grave mistake. “I thought you could help us, Papa.”

_Of course, she was scared and she had wanted her papa._

He choked back a sob of his own then sprung to action.

“Come, love, we must make haste,” he said patting her back. “Where is your brother?”

“Geoffrey Charles? Why he’s in London, Papa.” She was confused then understood he meant young Jonathan. “Oh, the boys weren’t with us today. Jonathan is here somewhere about...”

“Jonathan!” Francis shouted. “Where are you, my boy?”

“I’m here, Papa.” The young boy appeared suddenly from around the corner of the house as soon as he was summoned. Relieved to see another of his children alive and well, Francis longed to wrap him in his loving embrace, but he knew there was no time to waste.

“Find Bartle straightaway. Tell him to get the horses ready at once... and I must have a great length of rope. A strong one. And don’t breathe a word of this to your mama!”  Francis took hold of Evelyn’s hand and together they raced towards the stable.

With Evelyn on Francis’s horse with him and Jonathan riding with their manservant, Bartle, they rode swiftly towards the cove. The late June evening was exquisite--the grass under their hooves was soft and green, songbirds called to one another, the air warm and sweet. Had it not been for their desperate predicament, it would have been a lovely evening for a ride along the coast.

After they arrived and dismounted, Francis had the sense to send Evelyn and Jonathan on to Nampara. He recalled Ross was in Truro that day on mine business but thought Demelza and Jeremy, and certainly their servants, might be of additional assistance.

Carefully he and Bartle climbed down to the shore, then around to the cove as close as they could get in the rushing waters. They spied the young girl, transfixed on the rock while fierce waves crashed around, nipping at her feet. This would not be easy.

“Clowance!” Francis called and waded out a few yards towards her, close enough to see her face. Unlike any other Poldark, Clowance was as silver-blonde as a Nordic fairy. But now her grey-blue eyes were wide and her pale skin was white from the cold sea--and from fear. Clowance was usually such a sure and spirited child; to see her so still was alarming.

“Uncle Francis!” she squeaked and held out her arm, almost upsetting her balance. She caught herself and froze again.

“My girl, stay as you are!” Francis shouted above the din of crashing surf. Reluctantly he trudged back to the shore where Bartle paced anxiously. After another moment of consideration, Francis removed his waistcoat and boots.

“Bartle, tie the rope around me. Fasten it to that jagged rock over there, then hold it as fast as you might!” he ordered.

“Yes, Mister Poldark, Sir, ” the servant gulped.

“And do not let go, my man, do you hear me?”

Now Francis waded out again. A wave crashed into him and almost pushed him right over. He struggled to right himself and went deeper still. The sand shifted under him announcing the end of any solid ground.

Francis Poldark was on no account a strong swimmer. More than once in his childhood, Ross had rescued him from this very surf. And since then he’d had close calls as a grown man. A little over ten years ago he had nearly been killed falling into a flooded well in the mine. Again Ross had found him just in time and pulled him, nearly dead, from the dark and freezing water. It had taken Francis nearly two full months to recover and he emerged from the ordeal considerably weakened. But he was also determined to master the rudiments of swimming after that, not for sport but to save his own skin should the occasion ever arise again. His strokes were ungraceful and barely effective in calm waters, and would be no match for an angry sea such as he found today.

And yet...he could not bare for Demelza to lose another of her children. Not when he still owed her so very much.  

He, Elizabeth, and their oldest, would not be alive today had Demelza not risked everything to nurse them in their deathly sickness back in 1790. And the risk proved too great, for it was merely days later that Demelza’s own baby, Julia, fell mortal ill.

As he launched out against the foaming surge, Francis wondered why it was that he had just now thought of Clowance as _Demelza’s_ child, and not Ross’s? Of course Clowance was a Poldark and of course Ross loved all his children. But it was for Demelza that Francis pushed on, fully appreciating the risk he presently took.

It seemed an eternity. Gasping, he stopped every few strides to feel that the rope was still tied to him. He stayed in constant motion but drifted with the pounding of the tide and had to turn to redirect himself every so often. Eventually his inelegant paddle proved enough and to his astonishment, he reached the slippery rock.

It would not do for Clowance to see his own fear so he rallied a brave smile then sought purchase for his foot in a small crevice on the rock face. He hoisted himself up in a final heave and sat dripping next to the girl.

 _That may have been the easy part. Now how to get her safely back to shore?_ he wondered.

Suddenly animated again, Clowance flew at him, clinging to his wet shirt. He’d never known a body to need him so desperately, and dumbfounded, he held her close. And he found to his surprise, he needed her as well.

“Uncle Francis,” she whispered into the wind. “I knew you’d come.”

The sun had not yet dipped below the horizon but the air was considerably cooler than it had been earlier. He saw Clowance’s lips were the same color as her eyes and knew they mustn’t linger.

“Come now. Wrap your arms around my neck, but hold fast to me, my dear. It will be cold in the water and you may lose feeling in your hands. But you mustn't let go, do you hear me, Clowance?” His voice was both gentle and firm at the same time.

Dumbly she nodded but was slow to move and he now worried her immobility wasn’t caused by fear but shock. If he had more slack in the rope he might wind it around her too but it wouldn’t give. He bade her climb on his back and clutched her clasped hands tightly. Warily he climbed back down into the swirling sea.

_Hold fast, my love._

Again he pushed on against the gushing torrent of the sea. He gasped, feeling himself going under, but with every fibre of his will, rose above the surface. The cold little hands remained joined around his neck while her strong legs gripped his waist tightly. The surf roared in his ears and pounded his body, seemingly angry to be denied its bounty that evening.

Francis then sensed a strange vibration above his cheek and realised Clowance was humming. He couldn't make out the tune exactly but rather than hear it, he felt it as she kept it steady. Like a cat purring in its distress, she instinctively sought to soothe herself in the midst of peril. This buoyed him and he plunged on ahead with renewed vigor.

Waves continued to pound fiercely around them but he could see the shore as well as the blurred outlines of figures jumping up and down in excitement. They were close.

Just then he felt himself pulled under, an unyielding force so strong he could not check it. He waved his arms fiercely to fight whatever it was that had him. As he wrestled this unseen foe he knew with every writhe and wiggle, Clowance was in danger of her losing her grip. When he floated up to the surface again lighter, his worst fears were realised-- he had lost his precious cargo.

“Clowance!” His cries were lost in the gurgle of sea water that rushed into his gaping mouth. Despair paralysed his limbs and he felt himself pulled back under.

 _So this is how it ends?_ he thought. _Ross! Ross, where are you now?_

And with that he gave up the struggle and allowed his arms to hang free in front of him. He felt the sea calm around him as it pulled his weightless body onward. He had been here before and did not want to waste his last moment alive raging against all the world. He reached out in search of some peace before the end.

It was then his knee scraped the sand and he realised he had in fact drifted into shallow waters. Startled, he struggled to find his feet under him and straighten his legs, while large, rough hands reached under his arms to raise him up.

Francis looked up at the excited face of his man servant. It had been Bartle pulling the rope that had caused him to go under that last time and who now dragged him to the shore.

“Clowance?” Francis croaked, the name stuck in his throat. “Where is Clowance?”

“She’s ‘ere, sir! She’s ‘ere!” Bartle reassured him.

On the shore, Clowance was already wrapped in both a rug and in Evelyn’s powerful embrace. Evelyn and her brother had apparently returned from their mission to Nampara, successfully fetching Demelza, Jeremy, and their two servants, Jud and Prudie.  

"Clowance," Francis whispered and fell to his knees on the damp beach.

“Let the gurl breathe,” Jud muttered as Evelyn clutched her cousin.

“Oh hush your mouth, you black worm!” Prudie scolded her husband. “We’ll all be holdin’ our Miss Clowance tight tonight. Thought we’d lost her, we did!” With that the tearful servant joined the girls and pulled them into her own strong arms.

“Let’s ‘ave that bot’tle of Capt’n Ross’s brandy then,” Jud said. “Fer Mister Francis and for the gurl,” he added.

“Prudie, take Clowance and the children home.” Demelza now spoke, forcing a smile. She’d clearly been shaken watching the ordeal unfold in front of her eyes but once she saw her daughter was in one piece, she was resolved to be strong and composed. Still she held Jeremy’s hand tightly. From time to time her son looked up at her to make sure she was steady on her feet.

“Jud, help me and Bartle get Francis back to the house,” she said. “Don’t object, Francis, we’re taking you to Nampara. You need to get warm and out of these wet things before…” She stopped herself as the magnitude of what Francis had just done hit her. She knelt next to him where he sat panting on the sand and wrapped her arms around him.

“Demelza…” he gasped and rested his head on her shoulder.

“Francis, we are forever indebted to you. You...you saved my girl,” she began softly.

He heard the tears in her voice.

“No, Demelza, you owe me nothing.”

Francis knew then that no matter what he had done that day or what he might do in the days hence, there were some debts that could never be discharged.

They sat together for a moment, not speaking, just clinging to each other and contemplating the impermanence of the world around them.

And in that moment the Poldarks were all alive and together-- and they knew they could not ask for more.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm nervousladytraveler over on tumblr if you want to continue the conversation.


End file.
